


Frozen Over

by Midnight_Disasters



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Embarrassment Kink, Grooming, King Bro, M/M, Magic castles, Mind Meld, Mind Reading, Public Sex, Snow King, Throne Sex, possessive kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 21:18:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17149250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Midnight_Disasters/pseuds/Midnight_Disasters
Summary: John thought he might freeze to death. The universe had other plans.





	Frozen Over

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Clamdiver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clamdiver/gifts).



> Happy Christmas Rose. I gave it a shot, and, in my defence, 'snow king i guess?' isn't a very descriptive prompt.

 

_ Before the stars have left the skies,  _

_ At morning in the dark I rise;  _

_ And shivering in my nakedness,  _

_ By the cold candle, bathe and dress.  _

 

_ Black are my steps on silver sod;  _

_ Thick blows my frosty breath abroad;  _

_ And tree and house, and hill and lake,  _

_ Are frosted like a wedding cake. _

-Robert Louis Stevenson

 

It’s difficult to tell at this point what time of day it is, with the overcast sky and snow as far as the eye can see. The only sound is the wind and the crunch of the snow beneath John’s boots, a silence that while unnerving at first, John has come to accept. The bite of winter feels as though it has seeped into his bones, and even through his coat and gloves he knows he’s gotta find some kind of shelter. Far away from any kind of civilisation, John wonders not for the first time since his snow biking trip went awry if this is the end for him.    
  


At least its not actively snowing, thank heaven for small miracles. 

 

Before he can get too deep into his melancholy train of thought, John blinks and wipes his glasses, peering out ahead of him. He’s pretty sure he can see some sort of large structure in the distance, which is odd because he’s pretty sure there wasn’t anything there the last time he’d looked. Nonetheless, it appears as though it’s only about a mile and a half out, and there’s nothing else in any other direction, making it his best bet. He shakes out his freezing limbs and presses on. 

 

As he nears closer to the structure, his perception of it grows more and more fantastic in nature. It looks like some kind of castle, forged from the ice itself. Since he hasn’t hit his head or suddenly transported himself into the Frozen universe, he assumes it’s some kind of delirium brought on by poor circulation. He wonders to himself if mirages can happen in extreme cold as well, a thought closely followed by an intense wish for this not to be his mind’s fabrication. A building, castle or not, means warmth, which means he might just get out of an anticlimactic death via freezing.

 

After what feels like an eternity, he’s close enough to really make it out. It’s huge, so tall at this proximity he can no longer see where it ends. More than that, it’s beautiful, the ice forming ornate columns and beams. He takes a breath, shallower than he intends in the cold winter air, squeezes his eyes shut and reaches out to touch the tall wooden doors. 

 

For a few agonising seconds, he’s sure his hand will be met with nothing but cold air and he’ll open his eyes to see it was all just his imagination trying to convince his body to keep moving. But then he touches solid, smooth wood, and excitement bubbles in his chest. He’s not sure how he’s supposed to get inside, but it’s  _ real _ . He steps closer and gives the door an experimental tap by way of a knock. 

 

No response. 

 

He taps on the door again, a little more insistently this time, and listens for any kind of movement. There’s nothing. He stands there, his cold hand outstretched, staring at the door. 

 

Nothing happens. No one opens it. John feels like he could cry. In one last ditch attempt at getting inside, he throws his weight forward and pushes the door. 

 

And falls flat on his face when it opens inward, depositing him on a deep purple rug leading into the castle.

 

He’s delighted to find he was right about it being warmer inside, an incentive that spurs him to pick himself up, brush off the snow and shut the door behind him. The entryway he finds himself in is breathtaking. He imagined the interior might also have been made from ice, but the colours are the only chilly thing about it. The purple rug leads forwards down a long walkway that leads god knows where, and forward to his left and right are grand staircases leading up to a second level. The walls are adorned with lamps and intricate woodwork, the entrances to other rooms beyond high arches.

 

John can’t help but think it’s beautiful. 

 

As the thought passes through his mind, he finds he’s drawn to walk down the purple rug and see where the passageway leads. There’s no one around to guide him, and anyway, he’s never has a chance to explore a castle before and it’s unlikely he ever will again. He doesn’t know where he’s going for sure, but it seems to him like his gut is telling him that going straight down the walk is going to be the most pleasant way to go. Without dwelling too much on it, he follows the urge. 

 

The walkway takes him through what seems like the centre of the castle, leading him through a walkway with a high ceiling and walls with more of that intricate pattern-work. It feels as though he’s at some sort of museum of some grand historical exhibit somewhere in Europe where everything around him is old and pretty. He doesn’t really think about where he’s going, more interested in the sights. He mostly just keeps walking straight, and when he does turn into an arched entrance, he chalks it up to choosing randomly amid his options. 

 

Eventually though, he does have to stop, because his little solo exploration journey has led him to what looks like a throne room. There are long tables, longer than any John’s ever seen in two columns and rows. The most striking element in the room is the steps that lead up to an ornate chair plated in gold, and on it is quite possibly the most attractive man John has ever born witness to. 

 

In general, while he’s comfortable in his sexuality being loosely all encompassing, he doesn’t find himself ogling men too terribly often. The man sitting on the throne however, is nearly impossible not to stare at. His hair, so blonde it’s almost white, is adorned with a white gold crown that glitters with a deep orange jewel in its centre. He wears a billowing fur lined coat over a regal tunic, and large dark boots on his feet. And he’s looking straight at John.    
  
“It’s not often I get visitors.” 

 

For a moment, all John can do is stare, slack jawed and stupid, at the man whose voice is so smooth it feels like he’s being washed in honey. Only less sticky. His thoughts are a loop of ‘ _ oh god he’s so hot, oh god what if he’s upset I’m here, oh god oh god what is happening to me _ ’. 

 

“You’re welcome to approach,” He speaks again, raising a hand and gesturing for John to come forward. John’s pretty sure he’s too starstruck to move, but with the flick of the king’s fingers his legs seem to find the strength to move him across the throne room right up to the steps. Not sure what to do in this situation, John sinks to his knees. 

 

Without the direct eye contact, he finds it easier to make words. “I-I’m sorry, I was cold, and then I saw your castle, and-and it was open! I didn’t break in or anything, it wasn’t locked and there was no one at the door, so-”

 

“There’s no need for alarm. If you found your way inside, you were meant to be here.” 

 

Okay, cryptic, but it’s a nice place and if the king isn’t trying to kick John out, he might as well see how far his luck stretches. He peeks up from his kneeling position to look at the king. “In...that case, I was wondering-”

 

“If I had food for you? As it happens, this might be your lucky day. Turn around.” 

 

John looks over his shoulder to see that the long table closest to him has been filled with all sorts of meats and cheeses and breads and sweets. He inhales in awe, his hunger growing tenfold at seeing the spread. He makes to go to the table when the king speaks again.

 

“Mind, once you partake of my food, your circumstance will become clear. Are you prepared for that?”    
  
John frowns, looking from the table of delicious looking food to the blond king. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.” 

 

“My domain is not what it appears. If you eat what I’ve provided, you’ll see what more there is.” 

 

More mystery. It sounds important, like he’s making some kind of choice, but resounding is John’s hunger, throbbing and painful in his stomach, urging him to make his decision. It wouldn’t be so bad, probably, and the castle is so confusing and beautiful, it should be nice to understand it more. John finds himself nodding and the king gestures at the spread. 

 

He gets up, his knees a little tweaked from being on them, and stumbles over the the table. He stuffs a dinner roll in his mouth and moans, his eyes slipping closed as the flavour explodes in his mouth. It’s so soft and buttery he thinks he could die like this, right here, and it would be okay. When he opens his eyes to locate his next victim, however, he’s so startled he jumps. Turns out he and the king aren’t alone after all. 

 

There are what seem like hundreds of servants around, John notices them first. They’re dressed so well in their tunics John probably wouldn’t have assumed they were servants if they weren’t carrying new dishes up to the table and standing along the walls with their hands folded, gazes politely averted until a new task needed doing. The most bizarre thing about the servants was that they all appeared to be these beautiful, androgynous athletic types, flitting effortlessly around the room. They didn’t seem to need any verbal instructions from the king to carry out their duties.

 

The soldiers were the next group John takes in, standing around the king’s throne with imposing looking swords in their belts. John has to look twice to make himself believe they’re really carrying  _ swords _ of all things. The only other people in the room are two fair haired people standing near the king, dressed almost as regal as he is. He can’t figure what they do, exactly, but he figures they must be important.

 

He can’t tell if the light-headedness is from the hunger anymore. 

 

“Holy shit.” 

 

“You aren’t as surprised as I’d imagined you’d be.” It’s a statement, not a question, as though the king already knows this information to be true and is merely stating it as fact. Either way, John  _ feels _ pretty fucking surprised.

 

“I mean….this has gotta be a dream, right? Did I pass out in the cold and...Jesus. I had no idea my imagination was this good.” Privately, John decides this is why everyone in this room has such ungodly beauty. If you’re gonna dream yourself into a castle, might as well make everyone gorgeous, right?

 

“If it makes it easier to believe you’ve imagined this, you may,” The king says, exchanging glances with the blonde woman near him. 

 

John shakes his head. It must be a dream. All of this....is impossible. And by far the best dream he’s had since losing his father, before that even. As long as he’s dreaming, he must not be dead yet, so there’s no sense in wasting his opportunity to enjoy the fantasy. A wave of serenity flows through him, as if this thought injected acceptance into his veins. He looks back at the table of food and grabs himself a drumstick. 

 

He eats until he’s beyond sated, and the king’s servants are offering him cleaning cloths and water to wash the food down. He does feel happier, having eaten, and he lets out a small sigh of contentment. It's clearly one of the most through dreams he's ever had, but maybe this is what they're all like before he wakes up? He's determined to get whatever he can get in this dream land, and he hopes that includes somewhere to sleep.

 

As soon as the thought crosses his mind, he hears the king's voice. 

 

“Allow me to show you to where you'll be sleeping.” At least, John's pretty sure he hears the king's voice, but when he looks behind him at where the king sits, he's not so sure he actually said anything. He definitely heard words, but it's as if they just materialised in his head. 

 

Weird ass dream. 

 

John rises from the table anyway, and the king descends the steps from his throne down towards the hall to their left. As John follows, he can’t help but notice that the king is...taller than he expected. In a way that very much agrees with him. He trails behind him as they walk through another beautiful walkway adorned with paintings, gold trim and high arches. They make so many turns John’s sure he’ll never find his way back, this castle is so huge. 

 

“I hope you’ll be comfortable here, John.” This time, John’s 100% certain the king actually spoke, but he’s having trouble remembering if he told him his name.    
  
“How did--I didn’t…” 

 

“I know everyone who finds their way here. Have a restful night.” With that, the king leaves, walking further down the hall and disappearing around the corner. Alone again, and a little confused, John pushes inside his quarters. 

 

His jaw drops. 

 

At this point, he’s not sure why he’s surprised. Everything in this castle is awe inspiring, but he figured he’d get stuck in some random guest room they might have used for servants once or something. Instead, what he gets is a room with the largest bed he’s ever seen, a bed which close inspection proves is also softer than a fucking cloud. There’s an in-suite bathroom complete with a tub large enough for five fully grown adults at once. The delicate curtains that cover the windows are their own tapestries, each telling a complex story John has trouble even processing. 

 

His curiousity gets the better of him, though, and he yanks open the curtains to see if the castle looks out on the wintery landscape he came inside to seek refuge from. To his surprise, the winter scene he sees is anything but. His room looks out to a frozen pond bordered with snow covered bushes and what appears to be a statue of a young man. The statue is facing away from him, so he can’t tell if it’s just art or if it’s meant to be someone in particular, but either way this is clearly not the blistering expanse of pure snow he had stumbled in from earlier. 

 

Sighing, he shrugs off his jacket and tosses it over a chair in the corner of the room and makes his way to the bathroom. When he leans over to turn on the tap for the tub, he’s surprised again to find the water is light lavender in colour as it comes out. He runs his hand through it, but it’s normal water as far as he can tell, maybe lightly fragranced, but otherwise just water. It takes him a minute to figure out what to pull to plug the tub, and then several more minutes to fill it up, but he’s slipping off his clothes and into the warm water before long. It feels so good against his skin he can’t help but groan when he lowers himself in. He lets his eyes slip closed as he soaks his body, humming and enjoying the feel of it for a solid five interrupted minutes. He thinks back to his own, shitty apartment with its shitty standing shower that has basically no real water pressure to speak of. Bathing was one of the little things he missed from his childhood home, and this? This is bathing on steroids. 

 

He realises when he gets over the novelty of his initial soak that he didn’t look for soap before he got in, but like the rest of this place, the castle seems to have provided for him. There’s a bar of soap in what John would describe as a gentle blue sitting on the corner of the tub, so he grabs it, careful not to let it slip out of his hands as he washes himself with it. He’s mostly successful, only losing it into the lavender water twice and each time finding it without too much trouble. The soap is also lightly fragranced, a sort of pleasant vanilla that reminds him of the king. The tall, mysterious king, whose smooth, low voice John is pretty sure he could hear in his head earlier. John shivers at the thought, half entertaining the idea that the king could be in his mind. Would it be two ways? Could he project to the king, speak to him by thinking something? It should freak John out, but if it’s in his dream, he figures it’s something he himself came up with. All things considered, it’s kind of cool, in a way that pools in John’s gut and tingles in his lower back. He can’t help but wonder what the king’s hand might feel like, clapping John on the shoulder or rubbing his arm or touching his chest… John’s on hands mime it out on his skin, trailing softly down his torso as he moves soap around and sinks lower under the water. He lets himself get lost in the fantasy of the king’s hands feeling him everywhere, even his his most intimate places, touching him like he hasn’t been touched in two full years. 

 

He gets himself off with his own hands, eyes closed, body under the tinted water. He fucks into his own fist, quiet save for tiny moans and gasps as he works himself over. He even lets himself enjoy the afterglow for a few minutes before embarrassment heats his cheeks. 

 

He gets out of the tub after that, draining the water and looking around the bathroom for a towel to dry himself with. There’s a fluffy white towel and royal blue robe on the back of the door to the bathroom, so he pats himself dry and slips into the robe. It feels nice, like everything else so far, and he pads barefoot back out to the bedroom. There are nightclothes laid out on his bed, which most definitely weren’t there before his bath, which colours his cheeks again. He wonders at which point during his bath the servants must have come in to drop those off for him. He hopes it wasn’t toward the end. 

 

Instead of changing into the nightclothes, he lays down in the robe, luxuriating in the feel of the bed beneath him. Is it weird to want to sleep in a dream? Is it possible? It certainly feels possible, as the stress and strain from his day tug at him, urging him to take this gift and fall into a deep sleep. He considers changing, but all at once his body feels heavy and lazy, and he doesn’t think it much matters whether he sleeps in the robe or the offered nightclothes. He turns the lamp at his bedside off and allows his eyes to close once more, drifting into unconsciousness. 

* * *

 

When he wakes, he knows it’s not morning. He doesn’t feel tired, in the way one generally feels when they wake up in the middle of the night, but he knows he hasn’t slept through the entire night. It wasn’t exactly night when he went to sleep to begin with, so it’s impossible for him to predict what time it is, but John’s got his money on something like 3 AM. He’s never had issues with insomnia, so his instinct is to just lay back down and go to sleep again, but he’s got this weird swirling energy in his gut. It feels like he’s gotta go out for a jog or start pacing, and the urge to be moving in some way gets him up and out of bed. He gropes around in the dark for the switch to the lamp so he can find the night clothes that were left for him, but after two minutes of fumbling he gives up the ghost on that. The robe is...modest enough. It’s not as if he’s not wearing anything, normally he just sleeps in his boxers. 

 

He pads across the room, emblazoned to take a walk. He’s not really sure where he’s going or how he’s going to find his way back to his chambers in the dark, but the swirling energy in his stomach is practically tugging him out the door, so he steps outside his room. He tries to be quiet as he pads down the hall, not going anywhere in particular. He can’t really see, the hallways either unlit or lowly lit by a few spread candles, so he lets his instinct be his guide. Worst case scenario, if he tires out he figures he’ll just nap on the floor until someone finds him. 

 

John makes his turns at random, his bare feet making only the faintest whispers on the ground as he makes his way through the castle. It’s unfortunate that he can’t see much, since the castle is so beautiful in its interior design. When he sees faint light coming out from under a door, he makes his way toward it. 

 

As quietly as he can manage, he slowly turns the knob in case anyone is in there, trying to do his best not to wake anyone up. What he finds when he opens the wooden door is an opulent bathroom that features a tub the size of a backyard pool. In it, is none other than the king himself. 

 

John gasps and reddens immediately. “I’m so sorry, I’ll go, I didn’t think--it’s so late so I figured everyone would be--I’m so sorry,” He babbles, stunned, his hand still on the door. 

 

“You’re already here, it would be rude not to come in.” The king’s smooth baritone washes over John’s ear and he’s shutting the door behind him before he even realises what he’s doing. The moment he does, however, the ludicrous situation dawns on him. What the everloving fuck is going on here? Isn’t it more rude to see the king in his private bath? 

 

**_Countless servants see to my needs in the bath daily._ **

 

This time, the king doesn’t speak, it’s that strange sensation of his voice making itself known directly in John’s head. Head voice, he thinks he might call it. It’s also a point he admits he didn’t consider, that the king might be used to people seeing his body in this way. Washing him, dressing him, or any sort of medical care. Does that mean John’s on the same level as a servant? He can’t help but ponder, even as he inches closer to the king like a moth to flame. He’s magnetic, and John doesn’t even consider trying to resist the pull until he’s right at the lip of the tub. He looks at the king, waiting for his nod before perching on the edge. 

 

The water is tinted, like the water in his room was. This time it’s some shade of blue from what John can see, but in the low lighting it’s hard to say what shade exactly. He tries not to stare, because his dad always told him it’s rude to stare, but the king is just...unapologetically naked and easily visible from the stomach up, flat panes of his chest glowing in the warm firelight. If John were to look any closer, he could probably see where the hair on his stomach leads to, but he rips his eyes away before he can follow that party train. 

 

“Um...so…” He starts, his voice coming out smaller than he expects. He pauses to clear his throat. 

 

“Yes?”

 

“I...well I wanted to know...you know my name, so I guess I was just wondering if it would be okay for me to know yours?” It’s the longest and most roundabout way he’s ever asked someone for their name, but he’s afraid the king will just tell him to only think of him as ‘his majesty’ or something like that.

 

“Strider.” It’s the only name the king provides, but it’s more than John was expecting. 

 

“Strider?” 

 

“Yes.” 

 

John nods, absently dipping a finger into the water and swirling it. “And uh. I dunno, why are you letting me stay here?” 

 

“Didn’t you say you needed a place to go?” 

 

“Well yeah, I said that but--”

 

“The castle opens its doors to those of pure intention. I would not turn you away.” The king submerges a rag beneath the water and lifts it back out, squeezing the water out in his fist. John watches every movement. 

 

“Do you have any family?” The question just kind of falls out of John’s mouth, but it seems to amuse Strider. 

 

“You observed my siblings today. David and Rosaline.” As he speaks, it’s as though the image of the two other blondes is pulled to the forefront of John’s memory. He blinks and recalls them standing near the throne while he was eating, how he’d wondered who they were. 

 

“Oh! Right, yes. It’s just--or well, it was just me and my dad. Now it’s just me I guess.”

 

“You feel lonely.” He says it as a statement of fact, not a question, and John’s face heats again. It’s not often someone points that out to him. 

 

“Err...well I’m okay. My apartment is the right size for one person, and I have...I’m friendly with the people I see at work.”

 

The king hums and runs the rag across his arms. Again John’s eyes are drawn to the movement, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. They don’t speak for awhile, instead the king goes about his ablutions and John doesn’t attempt to stop his eyes from following along. There’s a warmth in his chest that makes him feel like it’s probably safe to look, okay to be here. He stays until the king is finished. 

 

**_The robe._ **

 

At first the ‘head voice’ directive confuses John, but then understanding blooms in his mind that he should be fetching the robe on the other side of the room for the king. He summons the self control to look away as he hands it over and the king steps out of the tub. 

 

“Let’s get you back to bed,” Strider says, robe securely in place. 

 

All John can do is nod. 

 

* * *

 

It happens every night for nine days. Without fail, after a day of eating wherever and whenever he wants and having servants on hand to bring him books or clothes or whatever he requested, he’d settle down for bed and wake up in the middle of the night, stomach rife with that nagging restless energy. 

 

Every time he manages to find the king, and every time they talk, just one on one. Sometimes it’s in the large bath, once it was in a grand library, but most often it’s in the king’s chambers. When John’s gut sees fit to take him there, he’s always nervous the guards won’t let him pass, but each time they stand aside as though expecting his presence. 

 

John treasures their nightly chats and how open he’s come to be in them. He talks about his father and the cousin he was close to as a child but hasn’t talked to in years, he talks about what he did at his stuffy marketing job he disliked, and how he wanted to do something more...open. Strider listens to him and tells him about the castle, how it doesn’t appear to most people, how John was special in that way. Talking to the king makes him feel special. 

 

It doesn’t take too terribly long to figure the king must know his thoughts, and the projection of what John’s been thinking of as ‘head voice’ is deliberate. It doesn’t make John as shifty as he imagined it might, but when he calls upon the king night after night, sometimes in various states of undress, he never fails to flush when he remembers the king knows exactly what he’s thinking. 

 

More than that, John decides that as fantastic as the castle and its occupants are, he’s been a part of it for too long for it to be just a mere dream. And if this is his life, he  _ really _ doesn’t want it to end. He wants to stay. 

 

He mentions it, on that ninth night as the king walks him back to his chambers, a hand on the small of his back. He’s been more generous with touching John as their meetings continued, going so far as to invite him into the bath on the eighth night. John finds he’s more than okay with it. 

 

“I don’t want to seem ungrateful, because I am, really, I am! But...I was thinking, and...Shit. I want to stay, is that--is that possible?” He doesn’t really have anywhere to go back to, a realisation that had dawned on him during these nightly talks, and he hasn’t felt this content in years. 

 

“To stay is to fully give yourself over,” The king says, steering John down now familiar hallways. “Are you prepared for that?” It echoes the first time he asked John that question, when he arrived at the castle. This time, his answer isn’t steeped in uncertainty. Knowledge of what the king means by his statement flashes through John’s mind, tinting his cheeks dark. His resolve stays firm. He’s ready for this next step. 

 

“I am.”

* * *

 

John’s cheeks are burning as he approaches Strider’s throne, dark collar around his neck. He tries not to think about the servants and guards in the room, some of them politely going about the business as usual, some of them not even making an effort to pretend not to look at him, his flimsy silk robe the only thing keeping his nudity from being on display. He tries to block all that out and focus on Strider, focus on the amber eyes burning into him, the thrum of  _ come closer, trust, come closer _ pulsing in his head. He makes it up the stairs without tripping, but when he makes it to Strider’s feet, he can’t bring himself to look anywhere but at the floor as he drops into a kneeling position. It’s more for his comfort than out of subservience, but either way he knows he’s done for when he hears  _ look at me _ playing like music through his mind. 

 

John blinks and tries to ignore the command, his hands twitching as they hold the floor as through to physically ground him. Without fail, it comes again, echoing through his head until it’s all he can think, all he can feel. 

 

**_Look at me._ **

 

And god help him, John does. It’s hard for him not to squint as he looks up at his king, but he manages to lift his chin and look up from his kneeling position.

 

“Up here,” Strider intones, patting his thigh. John knows exactly what he means and it takes everything he has not to look over his shoulder and see how many people are staring at them, staring at him. He rises shakily to his feet and the king’s warm hands are on his robe, pulling at the tie that holds it together, pushing it off his shoulders when it’s loose. John inhales sharply as it falls to the floor and he stands there, naked as the day he was born, and the king pats his thigh again. He squeezes his eyes shut and moves forward, reaching for the king’s shoulders to anchor himself as he climbs into his lap, legs spread on either side of the king’s legs. 

 

**_Good boy._ **

 

John feels it all the way down his spine. He opens his eyes and he hears the compliment again, wondering if his cheeks will ever not be pink at this rate. Strider pulls his gloves off with purpose and he hooks a single finger between John’s collar and his neck and pulls him forward to give him a warm, insistent kiss. John opens his lips to Strider’s tongue and feels that too, all the way through his body, his exposed sex standing at attention. When his king finally releases his collar, he replaces his hands on John’s back, moving down his backside to rub his ass. He palms the cheeks in his hands, feeling the way John shudders and holds on to his shoulders for dear life. John can feel the eyes on him, he knows they’re being watched, that almost everyone in this room is seeing the way his king plays with him and it only fuels his fire. His cock weeps between his legs and his blush practically colours his shoulders by this point.

 

Without any further instruction, a servant appears at Strider’s side with a small opaque jar. John doesn’t have to guess what’s inside of it. One of the hands on his ass falls away and he can’t look, his eyes are trained on the centre of Strider’s chest and nothing else, a slight squeeze from the other hand on his ass his only warning before Strider is back, probing a lubed finger around John’s hole. 

 

John inhales. This is it. They’re really doing this in front of everyone. His body is so hot he feels like he could burn up.

 

**_I want to hear everything._ **

 

John can’t ignore that directive if he tried. The finger pushes inside him and his eyes close again, a whine tumbling out of his lips. The finger moves gently inside him but John’s on fire. He’s gripping his king’s shoulders and squirming in his lap, little whimpers dripping from him. Strider’s other hand is like an anchor, stroking smooth and firm down John’s back, keeping him where he needs to be. 

 

**_That’s a good boy. Just take it, let me in._ **

 

At the directive John’s flooded with another intoxicating hit of  _ right _ and  _ perfect _ and a desire to let Strider in, to relax for him. He breathes through his mouth and his king lets him kiss him as that finger keeps moving in and out, in and out. John feels the tension ease out of his muscles, relaxing around Strider’s finger. He lets himself get into it, to really enjoy the feeling of just having one up there, almost forgetting about their audience until he hears activity behind him. He turns his head to see the eyes of every single guard and a majority of the servants on him, and the awareness of his nudity spread open on Strider’s lap comes rushing back to him along with the full body blush he’s been sporting on and off. 

 

**_Look at me, just at me._ **

 

John looks back to his king, but he knows now, he knows their eyes are watching his shame. No sooner than the thought is in his head, Strider’s open palm is coming down hard on his ass, leaving it hot, pink and stinging. John yelps at the impact. 

 

“You ought not be ashamed to be in my lap, John. Don’t you want to stay with me?” 

 

John nods frantically, already thinking up a thousand apologies for how he could ever think that way, even for a second, about this privilege, this opportunity. Strider’s thrum of forgiveness is warm in his head and he settles back down, and the finger slips out of his hole. The servant to their left offers the jug again and one finger becomes two, pressing at John’s wet hole. He’s ready for it this time, and Strider has an easier time slipping inside of him. The rhythmic prep starts back up again, and John moans at the feeling of his king’s fingers inside of him. At how lucky he is. How perfect.

 

**_Good boy. Take it just like that._ **

 

Strider works him until he’s plaint and relaxed around the fingers, panting into his king’s neck. John isn’t sure what to expect, but when the third lubed finger breaches him, he’s murmuring his thanks into Strider’s shoulder, incoherent and needy. He cries out with every push, every twist of his king’s fingers inside him, opening him up for everyone to see. He’s a mess already, and Strider hasn’t even taken him yet. 

 

The fingers push in and out of him for longer than John thinks he can handle, but then they’re gone and Strider’s warm palm is rubbing his cheeks again. 

 

**_Stand._ **

 

John’s shaky after all the prep, but he knows why he has to slide off his king’s lap and he’s eager for it. His legs only waiver once thanks to the steadying grip on his waist Strider provides. When John’s standing his king reaches between his legs to grip his balls, heavy and hanging and he groans at the touch. Strider runs an errant finger up the underside of John’s neglected cock and he whines, impatient and greedy for that large hand to envelop him. 

 

He knows exactly when it’s time to open his king’s trousers, and he does so with relish, working them and his undergarment far enough down his legs to free his cock. 

 

“You’re ready?” Strider says this out loud, looking John in the face. He nods once, and gets a rush of energy and he’s situating himself back over his king’s lap, hovering above where their bodies are almost joined. 

 

He breathes out, and sinks down. 

 

It’s one of the most overwhelming things he’s ever experienced, and it’s all he can do to keep himself from coming right there, completely untouched. The euphoria that fogs his mind is intoxicating, at least until the hand on his waist reminds him to move. 

 

John starts the pace, easy and cyclical, tightening and pushing his thighs to move himself up and down, up and down, his king filling him up every time. It’s hot and he can feel every inch, every ounce of effort it takes to lift himself up and drop himself back down. He’s panting and moaning like a whore in the throne room, but he can’t give a shit. Strider leans forward to latch onto John’s neck and suck a mark into his skin, then sensation almost too much for him. 

 

“Nngh, please, please please please,” John moans out, practically crying when Strider’s hips move in time to meet his. “Please, I can’t, I need--please.” He can’t string together sentences anymore, all he can think is  _ hot, wet, full _ . The sounds, slapping and wet that come from their bodies every time he moves only serve to drive him harder. 

 

“Do you want to come?” 

 

John cries out his affirmative, even though he knows Strider knows exactly how much he wants it. How much he needs it. 

 

“Show me how good you are. Come while you ride me.” 

 

It only takes a few more bounces for John to grip his king’s shoulders, the large helping hand that snakes in between them to give John a few strokes tipping him over the edge. He comes into Strider’s hand and holds still while his king grabs his hips and jerks him up and down until he’s coming, hot and hard inside.  

 

John slumps forward, tired and spent, wrapped up in his king’s arms. “Is it...Can I stay?” He feels the assent and approval before he hears it, and his quiet sigh of relief is muffled by Strider’s shoulder. He feels as though this is where he belongs, and his mind hums with  _ yes, right, stay, property _ . He squeezes the fabric of his king’s tunic and rests. 

 

He has a feeling it’s going to be a long night.


End file.
